The Girl in the Painting

by Kirsty Ferry

  Daisy stared at her, apparently weighing up her options.

  Then she spoke in that little lost voice. ‘I don’t want it forgotten,’ she said. ‘Because I think I’ve been forgotten. And Henry – he kept my picture, but it got destroyed in a fire after he died. So at least he never knew it was gone.’ Her face looked so sad. ‘He never married.’ She frowned. ‘He should have done, I think. I think I’d like to see him again but he’s never been there when I’ve looked for him. Maybe he thought I meant to do it and can’t forgive me properly?’ She was off again, her gaze jumping all over the room in tandem with her thoughts.

  Cori tried to coax Daisy’s mind back to the present situation. ‘And what about your diary?’

  ‘Can you keep it?’ Daisy asked, fixing her with such a heartfelt look that Cori wasn’t surprised to feel the tears building again.

  She swallowed them down. ‘Of course. Do you … umm … do you want me to try and set the record straight about things?’ She didn’t know how she could do that, but she would try, if she had to. Could you reopen cases that old?

  ‘Has anyone said, recently, in public, that I killed myself?’ asked Daisy. Her voice was harsh but Cori knew it was defensive, more than aggressive.

  ‘No.’ Cori thought back to the article. ‘There was a story in the newspaper about you, when they found your diary; but all it said was that there was a mystery surrounding the painting of Ophelia. It suggested that maybe Lizzie didn’t model for the whole thing after all and someone – you – had modelled for part of the painting, when Lizzie was indisposed.’ At that Daisy lowered her eyelashes and looked coyly at the floor.

  ‘Then, no.’ the response was emphatic and Daisy shook her head. ‘No. Because I don’t want them delving into my affairs too deeply. I don’t want them to start looking at my friendship with the Brotherhood. It’s too private and too painful – especially after what we went through with Lizzie.’

  ‘Well, fair enough,’ said Cori, cautiously.

  ‘I only wanted someone to know the truth about what happened to me – at the end. And you do, don’t you? And I don’t know – maybe Henry does too. I’d like him to know. You told him though, so that’s good. And it’s important that you know, because we are the same, you and I. Just wait – you’ll see. I need to thank you properly and I know just how I can do that.’

  Daisy’s attention started to drift off. She was staring at her own body again and Cori knew she was losing her – and perhaps her only chance of getting back to her own life. God, what if she was trapped here; trapped in some other world with only Daisy for company?

  ‘Please. It’s over with,’ Cori said. ‘Daisy. Daisy? Look at me. It’s over with.’ She wanted to touch the girl to reassure her, but wondered if her hand would fall straight through Daisy’s body if she tried to do that – which reminded her that she was in actual fact talking to a ghost in said ghost’s ghostly bedroom/death scene.

  Cori began to shake. Certifiable. She was definitely certifiable.

  Daisy turned to face Cori and studied her for a moment. Then she laughed quietly, reaching out one hand to take Cori’s.

  It was the weirdest sensation, like being held by a snowflake. Then she reached her other hand out and touched Cori’s forehead. Cori felt waves of tiredness wash over her, and then she felt herself crumpling up into a heap. The last thing she thought as she drifted into oblivion was that at least there was no pain this time.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  TOLWORTH, LONDON, MAY

  ‘That’s my car!’ said Simon. He saw it, abandoned on the grass verge a little way along from a gate. He jumped out of Jon’s car and ran over to his own, trying the door handles to see if it was locked. It was. He peered into it, trying to see if there was any trace of Cori in there. He saw a purple mobile phone lying on the passenger seat and cursed. ‘Her phone’s in here, she’s definitely around somewhere.’

  ‘You see,’ said Becky, ‘you could do the CSI thing as well.’

  ‘Yes, but it also means that wherever she is, she can’t contact anyone for help,’ said Simon. He looked up and across the field. ‘Wait! Is that her?’ He saw a figure in the long grass, standing quite close to the edge of the river.

  He recognised the silvery-white maxi-dress and the long red hair that fell in curls down her back; and he also noticed that she was now picking her way carefully through the grass and walking towards the water.

  ‘Cori!’ He shouted her name, but the word was carried across the field and she didn’t falter. He swore and climbed over the fence, not bothering with the gate. He started to run across the field, focussed only on getting to the woman before she slipped and ended up in the Hogsmill.

  Cori had reached the bank now, and stared down into the fast flowing water. To Simon’s eternal horror, she sort of half-slid and half-stumbled down the bank, then actually stepped into the grey, rushing river. The current must have taken her by surprise as he saw her wobble a little, then grab out for a willow branch that hung nearby.

  ‘Cori!’ he shouted again, pounding across the grass to her. ‘For God’s sake, Cori, just stay there.’

  He was almost upon her, when she let go of the branch and seemed to steady herself. Then she turned to the right and, throwing her arms outwards, fell backwards into the river.

  The water hit her like an icy blast. It was freezing; absolutely freezing.

  She knew she went under, as the water covered her face and she started to choke. Her hair wrapped around her face, clinging to her skin and dragging her head backwards until she somehow managed to jackknife her body, and force her head out of the water again. She gulped in air, then tried to flip herself over so she could at least try to swim or put her feet down to save herself.

  She flailed around, her dress dragging her back down and gasped, taking in a mouthful of water. She coughed and shook her head to get the hair out of her face, but all she succeeded in doing was getting the red-gold mess wrapped around her even more.

  She was going down for the third time, when she heard an almighty splash and almost immediately felt a strong pair of hands grasp her under her armpits and haul her out of the water.

  ‘Oh thank God, thank God!’ she cried, hanging onto the strong, firm body that was pulling her upright.

  ‘Cori, what the hell are you doing?’

  It was Simon, looking as terrified as she felt. His shirt was clinging to his body and his face was pale. His own hair was plastered to his head and he pulled her close to him. ‘Come on. Out of here. Now.’ He must have thrown himself in after her, judging by the look of him.

  ‘I don’t know. I fell in the river. It was cold.’ She was babbling, she knew it.

  ‘Sod this,’ said Simon. He gathered her up into his arms and waded back to the shore, Cori clinging to his neck and shivering.

  He set her down on the grass, well away from the water and pulled her close. She was shaking and cold, and her teeth were beginning to chatter.

  ‘We have to get you back to the car. There’s a blanket in the back,’ he said. ‘Becky and Jon brought me here, but God knows what would have happened if I hadn’t found you. I only knew you were here because of this.’ He pulled out a soggy piece of paper from his pocket and Cori recognised the patterns the words made. He crumpled it up and threw it on the ground, then pulled her even closer, as if he was trying to wrap her up and warm her himself.

  He stroked her hair back from her face, searching her eyes for answers. ‘Why did you do it?’

  There was a soft, self-satisfied laugh from behind Simon.

  ‘Why not? You saved her so it proves you love her. That’s my gift to you both. So you both know how it feels to be loved like I was loved. Cori – will you tell him now? Tell him I didn’t mean it. Tell him. I need him to know.’

  Cori could tell by the way the remaining colour drained from Simon’s face that he had heard the voice as well.

  ‘Who the hell was that?’ asked Simon, looking around for the source of it.r />
  ‘It’s Daisy,’ Cori managed to say. ‘And she didn’t commit suicide. It was an accident. A horrible accident and Henry couldn’t save her. That’s what she means. I need to tell you she never meant to do it. I think she sees you as Henry and me as herself. She wanted you to save me to make it all right again. Because Henry couldn’t save her at the end.’

  Cori slid her gaze over to where the diary lay, a couple of metres away from her. The car keys were, somehow, neatly placed next to it. It looked so innocent, yet she knew that it contained the deepest secrets and desires of Daisy Ashford’s existence. She would have to make sure it was safe so nobody would probe too deeply into Daisy’s life, ever again.

  Cori wasn’t one for breaking promises.

  ‘Thank you.’

  Daisy’s voice was no more than a whisper and Cori instinctively clung tighter to Simon. Then there was a movement on the grass by her feet, and it brought her attention away from the leather bound diary.

  The piece of paper Simon had so recently discarded began to roll across the ground, almost as if it was being directed somewhere. There was no wind to speak of and certainly nothing strong enough to lift a piece of wet paper into the air and make it dance across the field towards the river. Then a flash of light caught Cori’s peripheral vision and she squinted, turning her head towards it.

  She saw that a ray of sunshine had suddenly burst through the branches of the trees, and had thrown a spot underneath the willows into a pool of light. The paper drifted and danced, and ended up tangled in the dropping branches of the willow.

  And in the pool of light, was the distinct outline of a woman, holding the skirts of her long dress up and out to the side with one hand, and seemingly balancing herself by gracefully reaching out with her other hand. The sunlight caught off her hair and it shone like fire, rippling down her back to her hips then merging into the silver of her dress. She took a step towards the river, and another step; then paused on the bank.

  The woman looked to her left, at the willow nearest to her, and dropped her skirt. She half-turned, facing the tree as a man stepped out from behind it. He bowed low at his waist and then straightened up, holding his hand out to her, the other arm bent behind his back in a very formal attitude. She paused for a second, and then walked towards him. She held out both hands and he straightened up, taking her hands in his.

  The two figures took a step towards one another. By some weird law of physics, they apparently merged together in another flash of silver: and in another instant, they were gone.

  Cori closed her eyes and hid her face in Simon’s chest. She could feel his ribcage moving as he breathed; could feel his arms around her, holding her close.

  This was where she wanted to be, she realised. Right here, forever, with the man who had saved her life.

  I won’t leave you, Daisy. I’ll never let anything bad happen to you again, I promise. I want to look after you for the rest of your life. And I swear to you, on my life, that I never break my promises.

  ‘I love you, Simon,’ she whispered into the damp cloth of his shirt. ‘Don’t ever leave me.’

  She felt him bury his face in her hair. ‘I love you too, Cori,’ he said against her damp curls. ‘I won’t leave you, ever. I promise. And I don’t break my promises.’

  ‘I know,’ whispered Cori, feeling the tears spring to her eyes, feeling wretched and helpless about Henry and Daisy and for the whole tragic mess they’d ended up in. ‘I know you don’t.’

  Then she pulled away and looked at the river and the willows and the reeds swaying amongst the grass on the bank.

  And she hoped Daisy and Henry would find their peace now.

  Epilogue

  TATE BRITAIN, LONDON, JULY

  The new Rossetti was, as Lissy had said, the centrepiece of the latest Pre-Raphaelite Exhibition at the Tate. The canvas was smaller even than the Ophelia painting, but it was clearly a Rossetti.

  ‘It’s crazy to think that something like this could be hidden away in someone’s attic for so long and nobody knew anything about it,’ said Jon. He and Becky were staying at Lissy’s for a few days. Lissy had been determined to get them down to London one more time before the baby arrived and the exhibition had been the perfect excuse.

  ‘You can see Ophelia again,’ Lissy had said, trying to persuade Becky during one of her visits to Whitby. ‘It’s a shame if you miss out on the new Rossetti, just because you can’t see your toes any more.’

  ‘Are whales generally welcome in the Tate?’ Becky had asked, conversationally.

  ‘You’re not due until August,’ Lissy had argued.

  ‘And the exhibition opens at the end of July,’ Becky had countered. ‘As I said, are whales welcome at the Tate?’

  ‘You’ll be fine,’ said Lissy. ‘You’re just blooming. Do you want me to paint your toenails for you? That always cheers me up.’

  Becky had remained unconvinced as to the ‘blooming’, but had offered her toes to Lissy anyway.

  And in the end, of course, they’d gone to London.

  ‘If I have the baby in your perfect house,’ Becky had moaned to Lissy as she flopped, ungainly and exhausted, onto Lissy’s sofa after the journey down, ‘it’s your own fault.’

  But so far, so good, and they’d all made it to the preview evening. Lissy steered Jon and Becky off towards Ophelia, chattering as she went, and Simon and Cori lingered beside the new Rossetti, promising to meet up with the others at the buffet table later.

  ‘You can see why the PRB were deemed revolutionary, can’t you?’ asked Simon. He pointed out the bold strokes of colour in the portrait.

  ‘See how the light shines on her hair – it’s like it’s painted out of sunsets.’ He looked down at Cori and smiled. ‘It’s easy talking about Lizzie like that. It’s easy talking about my model like that as well.’

  ‘Really?’ Cori fingered one of the corkscrew curls that fell down way past her shoulders. ‘I always just thought my hair was ginger. I guess I have ladies like Lizzie to thank for the fact people can see past the ginger-ness of it.’

  Simon laughed. ‘She certainly had a unique sort of beauty. Imagine, though, as Jon says, how this could have been lost for so many years.’

  ‘Mmmm,’ agreed Cori. ‘Imagine it.’

  ‘And one of the nicest things about it, I think, is that Rossetti’s painted the bunch of flowers on the floor so carefully. Look – each petal is individually shaped, and there are tiny, pink stripes through each one. They’re beautiful.’

  ‘They’re daisies,’ said Cori. She looked again at the portrait, a little more closely. ‘Daisies. Definitely.’ Her heart seemed to stutter for a second and she cast her eye over the model again. It looked like Lizzie. It had Lizzie’s hair – but the nose, when you looked a little closer, wasn’t quite so aquiline. The girl was half in shadow, the light from the window covering most of her face and the sweep of red-gold hair that fell down past her shoulders doing a good job of covering even more of her features. Cori hardly dared breathe for a second.

  ‘What is it?’ Simon asked.

  ‘They’re daisies,’ she repeated. ‘And I don’t think her nose is quite Lizzie’s nose.’

  ‘But you think it’s still Lizzie, yes?’ Simon frowned, concerned now.

  Cori didn’t want to lie to him; but she did. ‘I think it’s probably Lizzie,’ she said, trying and failing to keep her voice measured. ‘It’s probably not one of his best likenesses. He would want to show the world the real Lizzie. Not this Lizzie. This is probably a practice Lizzie.’ Yes, she was babbling again, and she knew it. ‘But it’s Lizzie.’ The world wants it to be Lizzie. So it is Lizzie.

  ‘Oh, good. Because for a moment, I thought you might say it was Daisy.’ Simon laughed. It was, it had to be said, a rather forced laugh.

  ‘Who knows?’ replied Cori. ‘Maybe it’s even my Aunt Corisande. Who would know the difference nowadays?’ Suddenly, she shivered as a thought entered her head: if it’s not Lizzie – or Corisande �
�� and it is Daisy, then at least she got her wish. She’s been recognised in a Rossetti; as Lizzie.

  ‘Let’s go,’ she said, rather too abruptly. ‘Let’s look at the other pictures again. Then we can head back and you can start moving your canvases and your painting stuff onto my second floor. If you like.’

  As Lissy had said, Cori had never been too reticent in the past – but that was before Evan had come into her life and squashed her confidence. Now, however, she had Simon; and she saw no reason to go on as they were going – the odd night at his, the odd night at hers.

  ‘Then, once they’re moved in, how about you follow them? Only you’re not going to be limited to the second floor, of course. And Bryony has to come as well.’ Cori really liked that little tabby, now she was used to her running out of Simon’s second bedroom at random moments. And Bryony seemed to like her, which was always a bonus.

  Simon stared at her. Then he pulled her towards him and kissed her as if nobody else was in the room.

  When he finally drew back, he looked down at her, straight into her eyes. ‘I would like that more than anything in the world,’ he said, softly.

  ‘Well, we could have moved into your place, but I really think it’s time you gave up that lease and stopped wasting money on rent,’ replied Cori, ever practical. ‘My place is definitely more user-friendly.’ She stole her hand into his and was pleased to feel him squeeze it. ‘Especially since you fixed the doors.’

  Cori looked again at the girl in the portrait and smiled to herself. Then she dragged her eyes away from the painting and looked back up at Simon; her future.

  The portrait was in the past. It had lain discarded in her grandmother’s attic for over a century and a half, hidden in an old trunk which, according to paperwork also found inside it, belonged to Thomas Hedley-Turner – the original Corisande’s husband. Cori had begun tidying the attic in the wake of the Evan break-up, just for something to do to occupy her mind and she had discovered the portrait, stuffed away in a trunk with the locks rusted shut.